Save Me From the Dark
by SilverSunset3
Summary: A oneshot drabble of sorts about what was going on in Sylar's head while he was trapped in his own mind. Takes place pre- "The Wall".


Sylar is my all-time favorite character, and "The Wall" was probably one of my favorite episodes of Heroes. After watching it for about the sixth time, I started to think, what was going through Sylar's head for those "three years" before Peter showed up? Here's my take on it.

Disclaimer: As much as I wish he were mine, Sylar is the property of NBC.

Enjoy.

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**Save Me From the Dark**

He was like one of the clocks that he had so often fixed: intricate, complex, delicate… and broken. Only, he couldn't fix himself like he could fix any and all of those clocks. He couldn't save himself.

He was too far gone, damaged beyond repair.

There was no fixing him.

_Tick. _

_Tick. _

_Tick. _

The clock in his head counted each and every passing second of each and every minute of each and every hour of each and every miserable day.

Alone.

It didn't change.

The passage of time was his only companion, the ticking of his internal clock the only thing that told him that this was happening, that this was _real_.

The passage of time was the one thing that kept him grounded in reality… and the thing that was driving him insane.

That, and the aloneness.

It was terrible, pressing. It was his worst nightmare. It was _hell_. And he couldn't escape it. He'd been trying, for so long. He could say exactly _how_ long, to the second if he so chose, but he didn't want to. He feared that, as long as he'd already been there, he'd remain there for that length of time over and over again, forever. It terrified him.

Acceptance came later, with the horrible realization that this was what he deserved, was what he had earned. That this was his punishment for all the pain he'd caused and all the lives he'd ruined.

That this aloneness… was his reward.

He didn't deserve any better. He didn't deserve company or companionship, and he especially didn't deserve love. He had had it once, had felt it… and then had ruined it. Ruined, just like everything else in his pitiful excuse for a life.

And now it didn't even matter anymore, because he was trapped in this hell, with no chance of escape. And he accepted it, because he knew that he had brought it upon himself.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

He stopped trying to find a way out. It was pointless, anyway. And, secretly, deep down inside, he didn't _want_ to escape anymore. He wanted to endure the awful torture of this place, to suffer the weight of this loneliness, because, in some convoluted way, it felt _right_. He wanted to be crushed by it, destroyed. He no longer believed that he was worthy of any better. And it was better to be trapped here, in this prison, in this hell, than to be among other people whose presence he did not deserve.

He was a monster, and now the cosmos were reaping their revenge. Divine justice.

It didn't matter that he wanted redemption, that he wanted a second chance; why would it? _Wanting_ had been his downfall from the start. If he had never _wanted_, he never would have fallen so far. He would have been a mortal man like any other; ordinary, not special, not a monster.

Well, he was _almost_ mortal here, almost. He had none of his power, none of what had made him special before. But he wouldn't be so foolish as to think himself capable of dying; no, that would be far too kind an end to this torture. It would be far more fitting for this punishment to extend forever onwards, into eternity. This _was_ hell, after all.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

The passage of time continued smoothly, evenly, uninterrupted, unimpeded by his suffering. It was unhindered by the way in which he was slowly losing his grip on reality. He almost grew to _hate _it, that infernal ticking; he _would_ have come to hate it, had he not embraced it as a part of the punishment he deserved. Instead of running from it – which was what he wanted to do, oh so badly – he surrounded himself by it, by the clocks and watches, all ticking away the seconds of the minutes of the hours of the endless days.

He submerged himself in the ticking. He forgot himself to the passage of time.

Everything that he was now or had ever been before… It was all slipping away. His name. His memories. They all grew fuzzy, distant, illusory. The only thing that was real was the ticking and that which it signified.

And even _that_ didn't seem quite real.

He let himself forget. He didn't want to remember who he was or why he was trapped here. He wanted to forget that he _wanted_ – wanted to escape, wanted redemption. His sole wish was for that desire to go away, but he was having a hard time shaking it.

_Tick._

He wasn't strong enough.

_Tick._

He was never strong enough.

_Tick._

If he had been strong enough, he wouldn't have ended up in this hell to begin with.

And yet here he was. Weak. Alone. Broken beyond repair.

He could not fix himself, nor could anybody else fix him. There wasn't anybody there to try, besides. Which was what he deserved. Of this he was certain, even if he was no longer certain of his own name.

_Tick. _

_Tick._

_Tick._

He was like one of his clocks, before it had been repaired by hours of delicate work. Only there was nobody with the ability to put him to rights.

And that was what he had earned.

Nobody would save him from himself; nobody would rescue him from the dark.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

The time flowed on.


End file.
